CHAPTER 6
DANIEL'S POV
I woke up in Sienna's bed, sunlight slipping through the blinds, warming my bare chest. My body felt light, still buzzing from last night—her soft laugh, her dark eyes locking on mine, the way she let me hold her like she was mine.
I reached for her, wanting her warmth, but my hand hit cold sheets. My stomach dropped. Not again! Her running from my place after our first night flashed in my head—heels clicking, door slamming. I sat up, heart racing, looking around. Her paint-stained tank top was on the floor, but no Sienna. Was she scared off by my age, my money, or something deeper?
I pulled on my jeans and shirt, sleeves unbuttoned, flapping as I rushed downstairs. My mind spun, did I push too hard? Was she shutting me out? Coffee's smell hit me as I reached the kitchen, stopping me.
There she was, at the counter, her dark hair loose, wearing a tight tank and shorts that hugged her curves. She stirred eggs in a pan, humming an old Madonna song, her hips swaying just enough to make my breath catch. Relief flooded me, easing my tight chest. She hadn't run. Not yet.
"Thought you took off," I teased, leaning against the doorway, my voice rough from sleep, keeping it light.
She glanced back, her black eyes sharp but soft at the corners. "Take off? It's my place, genius. Where am I going?" Her lips twitched, almost a smile, but her tone had a bite, like she was hiding something.
I grinned, stepping closer, the wood floor cool under my feet. "You've got a habit of disappearing. Left me hanging once." I kept it playful, but my gut twisted, remembering her bolting from my house, like I was a mistake.
She snorted, scraping the pan with her spatula, the sound sharp. "I don't ditch in my own house. Want eggs or you just gonna stare?" Her words were tough, but her shoulders were stiff, like she was ready for a fight.
I moved to the counter, close enough to catch her vanilla scent mixed with coffee. "Sienna, what's the deal? You're acting like last night was nothing." My voice dropped, pushing a little. I wanted her to admit it—the spark, the way she leaned into me, like we were more than a fling.
She froze, setting the spatula down with a clink. "It was something, but doesn't mean it fits." Her eyes flicked to mine, then away, her fingers gripping the counter. "I googled you online and you're twenty-six, that makes you a little older than my kids. I'm forty-two, Daniel. People will tear me apart, say I'm some old woman chasing a young guy's cash." Her voice cracked, low and raw, her fear spilling out.
Her words hit like a fist, not because they shocked me, but because I saw the pain in her eyes. She wasn't just pushing me away, she was fighting herself, some voice telling her she wasn't enough.
I thought of my dad, how he walked out when his business crashed, leaving me and my sister to face the whispers and empty bank accounts. I was sixteen, learning to block out the world, building walls to keep the hurt away. I wasn't letting Sienna do that.
I stepped closer, my hand finding hers, my fingers curling around her wrist, gentle but firm. Her skin was warm, her pulse quick under my thumb. "I don't care what people say," I said, my voice low, steady. "When my dad left, I learned to shut out the noise. He bailed after his company tanked, left us with nothing. I was just a kid, but I built my life anyway. I know what's real, Sienna, and this is." My throat tightened, the memory raw, but I needed her to see I meant it.
Her breath caught, her hand tightening in mine, but she didn't pull away. "You make it sound simple," she whispered, her voice shaky, eyes wet. "It's not. I've got a life, kids. People will judge me, call me desperate." She looked down, her fingers trembling, like she was scared of losing everything.
Her fear cut me deep. She wasn't just worried about gossip—she was afraid of losing herself. I tugged her hand, turning her to face me, her eyes searching mine. "You're not desperate. You're fucking incredible," I said, my voice soft but firm. "Your heart, your art, the way you hum when you cook. I want that, not just a fling." I grinned, trying to lighten her, my fingers tracing her palm, slow and careful.
Her lips twitched, but her eyes stayed guarded. "You're too young to know what you want," she argued, her voice stubborn but cracking. "This'll crash, and I'll be the one hurt."
I stepped closer, my hand still in hers, my thumb brushing her knuckles, sending a spark through me. "I'm old enough to know you're worth it," I countered, my voice low, almost a growl. "One date, Sienna. No pressure. Just us, no world, no labels." I lifted her hand, my fingers fondling hers, gentle, my eyes holding hers, begging her to say yes.
Her eyes softened, her breath quickening as my fingers brushed her wrist. She wanted to give in—I could feel it in the way her hand stayed in mine, the way her body leaned closer. "Daniel…" she started, her voice soft, torn, like she was about to let go.
I lifted her onto the counter, gentle, my hands on her waist, her thighs warm against my hips. I didn't kiss her, though I wanted to, my lips close to her cheek, my breath brushing her skin. "One date," I murmured, my fingers sliding to her hand again, fondling her fingers, slow and steady. "Let me show you I'm all in."
Her eyes fluttered, her hand squeezing mine, but doubt lingered, her body tense. "You don't know what you're asking," she whispered, her voice raw, her fear of judgment louder than her want.
"I know exactly what I'm asking," I said, my thumb stroking her palm, my eyes locked on hers. "I'm asking for you."
The front door burst open. "Mom!" Zoe's voice cut through, sharp and shocked.